Tagträume
by sweetsugarpea
Summary: Oneshots, tumblr prompts, and drabbles focused around Fakir and Ahiru. [canon/post-canon & AUs, ratings & genres may vary]
1. Lucid

**Written for lyriette on tumblr. **

**The prompt: **

_"...sometimes fakir would write stories saying the both of them would have a shared lucid dream together that night when they fell asleep, and maybe in their dreams ahiru could be a girl and they could chat and dance and do many things they can't in the waking world?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Romance, angst(ish)**

* * *

><p>He drops his quill with slightly trembling fingers, nervous excitement humming through his veins. This is okay, isn't it? He misses her terribly. Guilt claws at his insides but he's too tired to care, pushing back from his desk as his chair loudly squeals against the hardwood floor. He winces and turns to see if he's woken her, but Ahiru is still curled beside his pillow, one wing over her head and back bobbing steadily up and down with steady breaths. He lets out a slow breath of his own because he's grateful that he hasn't woken her; if he had, he wouldn't have the will to go through with this.<p>

Fakir quietly puts out the lamp on his desk and at once the room is flooded with inky blues and the cool grey light of the moon. He shuffles to bed, too anxious to change and too exhausted to care. He prays that it works, and hopes that he can live with himself in the morning.

* * *

><p>He awakens at the lake.<p>

Fakir is perched in his favorite chair, portable desk in his lap and quill in his hand and the sun burning on his cheeks. At first he thinks that he's merely awoken from a dream, a simple fleeting thought in the late morning sun, but then he sees her.

She's kneeling at the edge of the pond, throwing crumbs at the birds who drift among the lake's rippling surface. Her hair is long and red, catching the light to shimmer in a thousand different shades. Her voice is soft and somewhat off tune as she hums a song under her breath, and all at once Fakir jumps to his feet, writing utensils clattering loudly on the wooden dock.

Ahiru turns to see him running to her, eyes as blue as a May morning and cheeks flushed red with surprise.

"Ah, Fakir!" She squeaks as he engulfs her in his arms, tight and disbelieving.

"It worked," He murmurs, burying his face into her hair. He tightens his hold around her slim shoulders. "I can't believe it worked."

"What worked?" She asks, and her voice is as sweet as anything he's ever heard.

"My story." He says. "I wrote a story."

"You did?" She quacks, cerulean eyes wide and so, so beautiful. He wants to kiss her in this moment, but he refrains.

"I did," He confesses. "I don't want to make you human in the real world. It's risky, and I don't want to take the chance of hurting you in the process. But also…I know that you want to stay as a duck. We promised each other that we'd be our true selves."

An almost bitter laugh bubbles from his throat but the sound is too pathetic. He holds her closer, too scared to look her in the eye. "I just wanted to hear your voice again."

"Fakir…" Ahiru says, and it sounds like a whimper. Fakir pulls back enough to see tears brimming in her eyes. All at once the view is striking and terrible, and it juxtaposes horribly with the almost saturated hues of the flowers blooming around them in the grass.

"Don't cry!" He barks, harsh and scared because _he'd done this_. He'd imposed his selfish desires upon her once again, even if only in his dreams. How awful he must be, promising forever and then going on to crave her regardless. "Don't cry, please, _dammit_, don't cry."

"But—"

"No," Fakir cuts her off, voice hoarse. He's screwed up. He's been selfish and he'd wronged her. How insecure she must feel, how insignificant and unworthy, when it is _he _that should be cowing at her feet. "Don't. It's my fault. I—I _promised_ you and I—" His voice cracks. "I still…I'm so sorry, Ahiru."

Ahiru sniffles, flinging her arms around his neck, lithe and warm and smelling of sunshine and reeds. He's confused at her reaction, but the satisfaction he feels at the feel of her form against him makes his self-loathing all the more palpable. But his hands are led by puppet strings, wrapping themselves tightly and winding his fingers in her hair.

"I missed you too," She confesses.

Fakir's eyes widen a fraction. He moves to lean back and meet her gaze but she grapples to him like a lifeline in a storm, tense and shaking and warm and despite his swell of ineptitude, he rubs her consolingly.

"I really miss you." Ahiru cries, hiccupping against his shoulder. "I know I promised that we'd go back to being ourselves but I miss dancing and I miss Pique and Lilie and I miss Mister Cat and I miss feeding all of the birds and I miss eating at Miss Ebine's and I miss talking with everyone and _I miss you!_ I'm so _sorry_, Fakir. I tried to keep my promise but it's just so _hard_…!"

Fakir kisses her then, softly on her right eye. Ahiru stops, instantly, still as the surface of the lake on a windless day. He slowly moves to kiss the other, and then her nose, and then her cheeks. He follows the stream of her tears and murmurs against the side of her nose that he knows, _dear God, he knows._

"I've written stories, you know." He says quietly. "Dozens of stories. _Hundreds_ of them, all about you changing back into a girl."

"You did?" She asks, "But then why am I still a bird?"

"I never finished them. I was too scared that I'd hurt you, or that it wasn't what you wanted. I didn't want to force you into being a girl again, _especially_ after I'd promised that I would stay by your side."

"But you _have_—!"

"But I still _wanted_," He weeps. "I wanted you back! I wanted to talk to you, to dance with you. I wanted to be with you, like _this!_ As a _human!_ But I _promised_ you, dammit, and I still couldn't help it. I had to see you. I've been selfish."

"I wanted too," Ahiru whispers against him, and the feel of her breath against his ear makes his heart threaten to shatter his ribs. "I _still _want. I know I said I'd be okay with it, but…what if I'm not meant to be a duck anymore? I mean, we changed the story. Why can't _I _change? I mean, I still like being a duck but I want more than a duck should want. I want to dance, I want to speak, I want to sing, I want to be with people and make friends and I want to be a _girl again!"_ Her breath catches, and his shirt feels damp from her tears. "I'm terrible, aren't I?"

"Not at all," He says, kissing the top of her head. "Not at all."

—

In the morning he awakens feeling a hundred years older, and part of him swells with dread as he sees the duck beside him shift and flutter.

She opens her eyes and at once he can tell, _she knows._ His breath leaves him in a great wind, and he asks with fear quaking his bones, "You dreamed it too?"

She nods.

"And you meant it?"

She nods.

Fakir sucks in a trembling breath. He leans over and kisses the top of her head, gently and hesitantly and with a love fit to burst through his skin.

"Okay," He says, and the words are already flowing through his head and his fingers itch for a quill. "Okay."


	2. Coffee

**Written for amisspanda on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

**"…**_how about your take on the Fakiru Student/Teacher AU?""_

**Rating_: K+_**

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff, AU**

* * *

><p>Fakir stares at himself in the small mirror of his bathroom and the sight is not comforting. There are dusty purple bags beneath his bleary eyes, and his hair looks just north of a rat's nest. His face is still stained red from his dream, and at the thought of said dream he lets out a half-strangled moan of anguish.<p>

It's all _her_ fault, that moron.

Ever since Fakir had started tutoring her, he's started to see her everywhere. At the store, in the library, at the coffee shop, and now, apparently, in his dreams as well.

Fakir can only remember bits and pieces, but the dream itself seemed innocent enough. He recalls little flashes of her pale, tiny hands wrapped in his much larger one, the sight of her smiling face and blue, blue eyes as he leans in closer to—

Fakir nearly misses the edge of his bed when he sits down to pull on his socks. Her fault. _Entirely_ her fault.

He goes about the rest of his morning in a similarly frazzled state, crashing toes into various objects and dropping things from too-clammy hands. Fakir has several moments where he goes to do something and loses his train of thought entirely because something reminds him of the ditzy redhead in his 9am lecture. He usually refrains from coarse language but when he drops his thermos on the counter and spills his coffee for _the second freaking time oh my _God, a string of expletives flies from his mouth at rapid-fire speed. Eventually he simply gives up, and decides to quiz his 8am on Thursday's reading to make up for his lack of caffeine.

* * *

><p>By the time Fakir gets to his classroom, he's thoroughly aggravated with the world and it's unnaturally large population of redheads. Six separate times on his way in to work he had almost snapped his neck trying to catch a glimpse of a flicker of strawberry blonde locks, only to realize with mortification what he was doing when he'd see it wasn't her. His heart is still pounding at the memories, and he is less than thrilled to feel an unpleasant buzz if anticipation in his limbs despite a very prominent and upsetting lack of coffee.<p>

And that's when he spots it.

The large cup of coffee sits there innocently enough, steaming warm and decadent in its promise of sweet, sweet caffeine. But he can see her name written across it even from across the room, thoughtful and mocking.

He's not sure how she would even know his order. Then again they've run into each other so many times at the coffee shop by now that she must have overheard him order it. How stupidly considerate of her. He trudges over to the cup with as much enthusiasm as a man approaching a firing squad.

Sure enough, beneath her name is the same messy scrawl that took him three tests and a pop quiz to decipher. The message is written in bright purple sharpie:

"_Thanks again for helping me study yesterday! See you __latte__! -Ahiru_"

The pun is so terrible and so _her _that he lets out an audible groan. He sinks down into his chair, moaning his misfortune to the empty room. Why? Why, out of everybody in the entire university, in the entire city, in _the entire freaking universe _did he have to fall for her?

Fakir goes ramrod straight in his chair, eyes wide with absolute horror.

No. _No._ He _refuses_.

She's his _student! _That is a solid hundred different ways of screwing himself over right there, from his job to his reputation to his teaching license. More so, she's an airhead! He can't count how many times he's seen her fall or trip or crash into something. Not to mention her streak of consistent tardiness. How freaking hard is it to wake up on time for a 9-am class? There is no way on this green freaking Earth that he could _ever_ fall for someone like that.

And yet here he is, irrationally glaring holes into the side of a rapidly-cooling coffee cup. The rich smell wafts to his nose, and Fakir comes to the conclusion that he is a masochist.

He tries to no avail to excuse his accepting the gift of coffee with the fact that she owes him one after making him spill his twice this morning (_even if she doesn't know it,_) and that it's only due to a desperate need of caffeine in his system. For the greater good of his 8 am class, he thinks, and he picks up the coffee and takes a sip.

It's so disgustingly sweet that he could puke. Honestly, he should have seen this coming. And yet he takes another sip and then another, and by the time it's half-gone all he can really taste is defeat.


	3. Performance

**Written for trixystix on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

"…_maybe Ahiru is nervous about her first performance and Fakir makes her feel better about it?"_

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Fluff**

* * *

><p>"But what if I fall or what if I forget a step and oh my gosh, Fakir, what if I knock somebody over or I fall off the stage or <em>what if I—"<em>

Fakir looks down at her, stage makeup heavy on her delicate features, hair pristine and not a strand out of place. Her leotard's sequins shimmer in the dim light of the hallway and he's momentarily distracted by the way the lights catch in her eyes. He shakes his head.

"I _doubt_ you'll fall off the stage, moron. You're at the back of the corps, so unless you royally screw it up I don't think you have to worry about that. Knocking someone over, on the other hand, is a definite possibility."

"_Fakir, you're not helping!"_ Ahiru shouts indignantly, swatting at his arm in a distressed frenzy.

"It was a joke, relax." Fakir sighs, placing a hand on top of her head. Instantly she calms, tears beading in the corner of her eyes as she pouts up at him. The sight is so ridiculously adorable and endearing that he makes a note to hit himself later for blushing. He bends down a bit so that he's now level with her big blue eyes, wide with apprehension. "You're going to do great. We've been practicing together, haven't we?"

"Y-Yeah, we have." Ahiru says. She gnaws on her bottom lip, sniffling. "But what if I forget? Or I miss a step? It's my first time being cast in a production and everyone else is so excited and I don't want to mess up when everyone's worked so hard on it and there are so many _people! _I've never performed in front of so many people before!_"_

Fakir pats her head, sighing. "Deep breaths, jeez. First of all, you've worked just as hard as everybody else who will be on that stage, right?"

In fact, Fakir would venture to say that she'd worked even harder. Since the cast sheet went up Ahiru has been practicing almost nonstop, showing up early for classes and staying hours after the last few girls go home. Fakir has caught her practicing her steps several times in the living room, trying her best to be quiet as not to disturb him and failing to do so all the same when she inevitably crashes into their coffee table. She's been relentless in her dedication, and the thought of her wrapping her bleeding toes and icing her swollen feet make a deep affection burn fiercely in his chest.

"Right," Ahiru agrees, rubbing at the corner of her eye with a balled fist.

"So stop worrying about it, idiot. You're going to be great."

"But Fakir, what about all the people?"

"Forget about them." Fakir says, and he moves to wipe a tear from her eye with the pad of his thumb. Her skin is soft to the touch, and it makes his fingertips tingle. "Focus on me."

"Focus on you?"

"Yeah. Pretend it's just you and me in the living room. Don't look at the crowd, just look at me."

Ahiru sniffles once again, but her face slowly pulls into a bright smile that makes his heart flutter. "Okay. I'll just look at you." Suddenly she leaps at him, hugging him tightly around his middle. Fakir feels his face burn with embarrassment, hands awkwardly poised on her shoulders.

"Thanks, Fakir. You always know how to make me feel better." Ahiru murmurs against his shirt.

Fakir feels something thick in his throat, heart hammering and ready to burst from his chest. He thinks of the last time he'd held her like this, back when she'd first become human again, and Fakir slowly makes to wrap his arms around her.

"Idiot," He mumbles against the side of her head, but the word is warm with affection. "Stop crying or you're going to mess up your makeup."

Ahiru laughs, pulling back and pulling his heart with her. She rubs at her eyes again, careful not to smudge her mascara. "I know, it's just that I'm still nervous, you know?"

Fakir makes to speak again, but the door to backstage opens up down the hall. The sounds of pre-show chaos echo down the hall towards them as Pique pops out in full costume, looking around until she spots them.

"There you are, Ahiru! Hurry up, curtain call is in 10!"

Ahiru squawks, turning on her heel to bolt up the hallway. "I'm coming!" She shouts, but freezes to turn back at him. He can see the fear in her eyes, and he gives her a gentle smile, the one that only she sees.

"Just look at me." He says.

"Just look at you," She repeats, and with a smile, disappears.

* * *

><p>When the curtain rises and the corps descends upon the stage, Fakir grips the armrests of his chair. He's purposely seated by the far right, directly in front of where Ahiru's marker should be. And sure enough he sees her step onto stage, face alight with nerves and eyes squinted against the harsh light of the spots. But he sees them widen as they meet his own, and then he sees her smile.<p>

He smiles back effortlessly, and when the corps leaves the stage, he claps the loudest out of anyone.


	4. Spies

**Written for anonymous on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

"_Pique and Lilie follow Ahiru home and find out she's living with Fakir."  
><em>**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Comedy**

* * *

><p>"Shhhhh!" Pique hisses, swatting at the tittering blonde behind her. "You don't want her to hear us, do you?"<p>

"Oh, but I simply can't help it!" Lilie gushes, holding her cheeks in barely-contained fervor. "She's so secretive with where she lives. She must be ashamed of it! What if she lives in a decrepit little shack? Or under a bridge? Oh, just think of it: Poor little Ahiru, falling asleep in a cold, damp gutter with only the thought of her two best friends to warm her! Oh, how wonderful it would be!"

Pique grinds her teeth, "You're unbelievable."

Lilie gasps, appalled. "_Absolutely not_!"

"SssHHHH! Look! She's sitting down!"

Lilie quiets enough to peer out through the branches of the bush, and sure enough Ahiru is quietly perched on a bench about ten feet off. Lilie squeals behind her hand.

"Oh, this is everything I could have ever hoped for! Poor Ahiru alone on her bench just awaiting the cruel darkness of night where she'll lie awake waiting for her dear friends to come save her and give her shelter!"

Pique slaps a hand over her mouth, squinting as a figure makes its way up the path towards them. "Hush, there's someone else coming! It kind of looks like—"

And it _is:_ swaggering up the path is the familiar brooding shape of Pique's former interest, permanent frown in place as always. _He'd be so much more handsome if he'd just lighten up_, she thinks as Fakir makes his way towards Ahiru.

The two look on in interest, even Lilie attempting to keep quiet as they strain to hear the two converse. While it's true that Ahiru is the only person on campus that Fakir will not blatantly try to scare away, they've never seen them together very much. It may be because Fakir had taken up classes in the English department, but even still the two made for an odd sight together.

"Home! He just said something about 'home'!" Pique hisses eagerly. Lilie turns to her, excitement brimming in her wide green eyes.

"Maybe he's asking her if she truly does live on a bench! Oh, maybe he'll mock her until she's in tears!"

"Shooosh. We're missing something—_they're leaving?!"_

Lilie and Pique pop up from the bush as Fakir and Ahiru make their way from the park, walking so close that their hands almost touch.

_Interesting._

"We have to follow her!" Pique announces, and Lilie claps in agreement.

* * *

><p>Tailing the pair is much more difficult than either girl anticipated. Both are near exhaustion from running and ducking and diving for cover, and there was more than one time when Pique had been sure that Fakir had caught them. But the older teen never says a word, merely glancing over his shoulder and turning back to the redhead chattering beside him.<p>

The two follow them out of town until they're a good ways into the woods, and the farther they go the more confused they become.

"Where the heck are they going?" Pique whispers, voice hoarse with exhaustion. Lilie shakes her head, just as puzzled as her friend.

It isn't until Fakir and Ahiru arrive at a small cottage by a pond that the girls can properly hear them.

"So I'm cooking tonight, right?"

"No way. You burnt it the last time. _I'm _cooking dinner tonight."

"It wasn't that bad!" Ahiru protests as Fakir makes to unlock the door. "You always make fun of my cooking."

"That's because it's always terrible."

"Well, at least I'm not the one who falls asleep at their desk and gets ink all over my face in the morning!"

"Th-That was _one time_!"

The two continue bickering until they're inside the house and the door shuts, cutting them off to the world. Pique and Lilie stare at the door in shock before turning to each other.

"You don't think…" Pique murmurs, eyes wide.

"That Fakir-senpai and Ahiru are living together?" Lilie finishes, the glee in her eyes unmistakable. "Oh, this is even better than the bench! Two lovers living secretly in the forest, only to be discovered and shunned by the town! They'll have to drop out of school and learn how to live off the land, toiling away until their fingers are worn to the bone~!"

"Lilie, shut up, they're going to hear you!" Pique pleads, trying to cover her friend's mouth. She can see Fakir in the window, and Lilie's elated ramblings are growing to notable volumes. "Seriously, they're gonna find out!"

"But _think of it_, Pique! Think of them as poor lonely wretches, thrown to the waysides of society because of their inappropriate tryst! Having no one to turn to but their dearest friends, Pique and Lilie~!"

_"__Lilie—!"_

But it's too late: The two freeze as Fakir appears again in the window, staring straight out at their bush with a look that could freeze a roaring fire. The girls hold their breath, Pique's hands clenched desperately over Lilie's mouth as they pray that their cover isn't blown. Soon enough, he drifts away from the window and out of sight. Pique releases Lilie's face, sighing heavily with relief.

"Maybe—" She says, "Maybe we shouldn't come back here again."

Even Lilie, ever the harbinger of chaos, looks a little shaken at their close brush with doom.

"Perhaps you're right," She agrees, but the spark of madness returns to her eyes and fills Pique with newfound dread. _"But what a wonderfully terrible end that would have been~!"_


	5. Realize

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Romance**

* * *

><p>Fakir supposes looking back that he fell in love the way Ahiru learned to dance: difficultly, gracelessly, and not entirely like a duck out of water.<p>

It's startling that he can't even quite pinpoint _when_; just the fact that one day he awakens to see her curled beside him on his pillow, soft yellow feathers shimmering in the early morning light and realizes that '_this, this is what I want to live for._' For the way her feathers catch the morning light, for the way her eyes glimmer like the distant light of stars, for the feel of her hummingbird pulse and the warmth of her form beside him.

It hits quick like a one-two punch and leaves him red-faced and doubled over, fighting for steady breaths and some semblance of composure. He hears her soft, drowsy quacks of confusion and he mumbles to her that it's nothing, that it's still early and that she should get more sleep. She makes another small noise of questioning, one that makes his heart do the strangest little leap that only until just now he had no real explanation for, and settles back against his pillow.

Fakir would remember this moment with great clarity upon looking back; the slight chill in the bedroom from the mid-autumn morning, the smell of parchment and crumbling leaves, and the warmth that settles in his chest as he looks at the small yellow bird in his bed. His eyes soften as he gazes upon her, tiny and delicate and more precious than gold. It's surprising how natural the feeling is, how perfectly nestled it is between his lungs, how light and warm and tender. Perhaps it's because of his own insecurities that he's never quite noticed it before, but now it nests behind his ribcage like a joyous, singing bird, ready to burst from his skin.

How had there ever been a time where he had found her reprehensible? How was there ever a time where he had been able to wake without her beside him? The notions now are inconceivable. Fakir had known it deep within himself when they had been in the Lake of Despair, and he thinks himself the fool for never realizing sooner. Ah, and how easy it was to promise forever! And how easier still it is to keep such a promise now that he's aware of just how deep her roots run within him. She's vital now, like the water and sun to a wilted sapling.

Fakir lays back down slowly as not to disturb her, turning on his side to study her round little face. Such a tiny thing, so delicate and frail and yet so incredibly resilient. To think that a duck was able to change all of their lives as drastically as she did; to think how drastically she keeps changing _his_. He thinks to how it was before the story ended, before she'd trusted him to hold her pendant. The mistakes still make his stomach lurch with guilt and self-loathing, but the ache is soothed at the sound of her sleepy titters beside him. Fakir smiles gently, effortlessly, as easily as he has in years as he reaches a hand over to gently run his knuckle down the side of her cheek.

Her feathers are so soft that it feels like no more than a gossamer against his skin. To think that such a sweet light would ever glow upon a bitter wretch like him, would ever reach out her hand and pull him up from the depths of his _own_ despair without ever once thinking of her own. He glances down to his ink-crusted cuticles, to the fading callouses of his neglected swordsmanship, and thinks how he'd never know that there was more than one way to protect without her guidance.

And it's guide him she does as he drifts back into a peaceful slumber with the thought of her smile and wings. All that morning, he sleeps soundly.


	6. Itch

**Written for anonymous on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

"_... maybe ahiru trying to inspire fakir out of his own writer's block?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Romance**

* * *

><p>Fakir crumples the parchment into a tight ball, tossing it behind him to the small pile of papers behind his chair on the dock. He gives a low groan and massages his eyes before slumping over in his seat, elbows on his knees in a display of complete vexation. There's a story itching in his fingertips, but every single sentence he's written in the past three days has been nothing but droll clichés and fairytale tropes that sit as well as a rock in his stomach. <em>There's a story here<em>, he thinks: a happy ending fighting its way from the cage of his mind, but he simply can't find the story it belongs to.

He glances up at a concerned '_quack' _that sounds from the end of the dock. Ahiru has been curled up at the edge of the planks, basking in the warmth of the early afternoon sunlight on the wood. But it seems that now his minor tantrum has disrupted her peaceful dozing, and in typical Ahiru fashion, she marches up to him as well as a duck can march in search of an explanation. He's become rather adept at reading her eyes, and so it's easy to discern the question there.

"Don't worry about it," He grumbles. He puts his head in his hands and hopes that she leaves him to stew, but she continues to peck insistently at the hem of his pants. He sighs. "It's the story I'm writing. Well, _trying_ to write, at least."

Ahiru cocks her head to the side, blue eyes wide with inquiry.

"The problem is that I don't actually know what story I'm writing. I feel…_something_, but everything I've tried writing just feels wrong somehow. Like the ending doesn't match the story, or that it's not meant for those characters." Fakir groans and runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, he notes absently. "But how could an ending be wrong if I don't even _know_ the ending itself? How the hell can an ending that I don't even know be wrong for a story that I haven't even written? It's absurd."

Ahiru quacks, fluffing her feathers a bit. She gives him a look that he's seen her wear a hundred times, both as Tutu and as a girl. And somehow, he thinks with the smallest hint of amusement, she can still pull it off as a duck. He watches her waddle to where he had discarded his lapdesk and quirks a brow as she picks up the quill with her beak. With all the grace of a duck out of water, she marches determinedly towards him before head-butting his leg. Fakir leans down to pet her, but she forces the quill into his hand instead.

Fakir quirks a brow at her. "You think I should keep writing?"

Ahiru gives a loud, affirmative _'quack_' that leaves no room for arguing. Fakir raises his hands in forfeit, sighing. "Fine, _fine_." He concedes. She makes a noise akin to what he can only assume is meant to be a snort of approval before marching her way back to the edge of the dock and plopping down in her earlier spot.

Fakir shakes his head and picks up his lapdesk. He spends a good fifteen minutes just tapping the nib of his quill against the paper, frustration swelling as his thoughts continue to elude him. After almost an hour passes again to no avail he looks up from his sheets to tell Ahiru that he's done for the day, but his breath catches in his throat.

It may have been the sunlight playing through the trees or the heat of the summer afternoon playing tricks on his tired mind, but for the most fleeting of moments he _sees _her.

She looks older than when she had last been a girl, and it's to be expected with nearly five years having passed since he'd last seen her. But her hair is still the same strawberry blonde, long and twining down her thin back. Her face has lost some of its childish roundness, replaced with a quiet femininity that makes his heart ache.

For that single, precious moment he_ sees _her.

And then she's gone. All that remains of his vision is the little yellow duck sitting contentedly by the edge of the dock, blissfully unaware of how violently his world has just tilted off axis. Fakir's hand itches again, and he writes.

* * *

><p>He does not look up from his paper for a long time. The sun is now low in the sky, and he does not realize how late it is until he marks the last punctuation on the page and sees that the sky is now a glowing peach.<p>

The words had flown on their own, fueled by his own burning need to record exactly what he'd seen in that moment. The language isn't flowery but it's honest and heartfelt, and Fakir marvels at how easily the story had come to him. Despite all of the hardships, it surprises him just how simple a story it turns out to be: a story of a beautiful girl with an even more beautiful soul, sitting on a dock on a summer afternoon while the man who loves her looks on in adoration.

He's brought out of his musings at the sound of his name. It's soft and sweet and so achingly familiar that it makes tears well in his eyes.

"Fakir?"

He heart jumps to a gallop but Fakir doesn't look up, even as he hears the soft footfalls approaching him. His hands are shaking and his lungs are burning, and for a moment he thinks that the sunlight is too impossibly cruel to give him such illusions. But he feels her hand on his cheek, soft and small and freckled, and when he looks up she's smiling and framed by a halo of sunset.

He leaps to his feet and sweeps her into his arms, papers forgotten as he breathes her in and drinks her voice like a man long dying of thirst. The papers lay scattered across the dock, innocent and unassuming, and in the back of his mind he notes that his hands no longer itch.


	7. Kiss

**Written for zeifure on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

_"IMAGINE FAKIR GIVING DUCK!AHIRU A SMOOCH AND THEN SHE TURNS INTO A HUMAN BECAUSE TRUE LOVE FIRST KISS (AND THEY ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER)"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Fluff, Comedy**

* * *

><p>He slips into bed after dousing the lamp, hand still aching from the hours of writing and eyes blearing with exhaustion. A sigh of contentment escapes him as his head settles on the pillow.<p>

_What a day._

Earlier that morning Fakir had been struck by inspiration like a lightning rod, hurriedly excusing himself from breakfast and rushing to his desk to scribble down the story that had been drifting through his mind.

It was a cutesy little tale about a duck and a boy and a kiss, and he knows that Autor is going to ream him for falling into typical fairytale tropes in the morning. But the idea nagged at him too insistently to simply let it _not_ be written, and so Fakir had spent the day writing until his hand felt just about ready to fall off his wrist.

Fakir hears a soft, sleepy quack beside him and sees Ahiru curled up beside him. She fluffs her feathers and in the dim light of the room he can see her azure eyes flutter open, and Fakir feels his chest constrict with affection for the tiny duck on his pillow. She gives another soft quack when she sees him, and he gives her a small smile.

"Sorry for waking you," He apologizes quietly, stroking the top of her head with the tips of his fingers. "I'm coming to bed now, so just go back to sleep, okay?"

Ahiru gives another quack and settles back down, and Fakir feels something inside of himself melt. _Like springtime_, he thinks. Like warmth, like life, like the sun. And she _is_ the sun to him, a tiny ball of joy that thawed his heart and found him the strength to change.

It's probably because he's so exhausted that he's so bold, but Fakir feels light as air and as warm as a summer day and it's all because of _her_, so he leans over and presses a soft kiss to the top of her head.

And then suddenly there's a bright light and loud, alarmed quacking and there's a feather in his mouth.

He splutters, wide awake and confused as to what exactly just occurred, but all sense of logic leaves him when he hears a voice that is decidedly_ not a duck_ and sees a naked girl sitting beside him, wide-eyed and surrounded by a pile of feathers.

Fakir promptly launches himself off of the bed, colliding loudly with the nightstand.

"Fakir?!" Ahiru shouts, and she sounds just as concerned and confused as he feels. He hears the bed shift, probably her trying to see if he's alive, and he presses his face harder against the hardwood floor.

"_C-C-Cover up!"_ He all but shrieks, blood rushing to his face so quickly that it makes the room spin.

He can hear her _'eep!' _of realization, and the rustling of covers. Fakir risks a glance upwards to see that Ahiru has cocooned herself in his quilt, eyes wide and face flushed and looking so ridiculously beautiful that it makes him want to shout because _he should not be thinking about how adorable she looks right now._

"What-What _happened?!"_ She squeaks, and it is absurd just how badly Fakir has missed her voice.

"I don't know," He says from the floor, head spinning. "I haven't even written any-"

And then it hits him. He sits up slowly and stares at his desk, at the stack of paper sitting innocently on top of it, before flopping back over in an embarrassed heap.

"_Fakir?!_"

* * *

><p>"So you're telling me that <em>this<em>," Autor slaps the stack of paper in his hands with distaste, "is what brought her back?"

Fakir takes a sip of his tea to cover the growing flush on his face. "Yes," He says, voice clipped.

"You _are _aware that this plays into every overused cliche there is in literature, yes?"

Fakir's eyebrow twitches. "I never claimed that it was any good."

Autor snorts, flipping through the manuscript. They grow quiet again until the man glances back up at Fakir from beneath his glasses, his own eyebrow quirked in question.

"And you _still_ haven't told her as to what this story entailed?"

Fakir puts his cup down and gives his cousin a pointed glare. "_No_."

"Why not?"

Fakir is not about to tell Autor that it's because he's too embarrassed and ashamed to admit that he had stolen a kiss while Ahiru had been asleep, nor that he was too frightened that she did not feel the same way, so he simply says, "That is of no concern to you."

Autor clears his throat as he skims the pages again, and Fakir decides that he does not like the smug grin growing on the other man's face. He takes another loud sip of his tea, shooting daggers over the rim of his cup as Autor glances up at him with no small amount of mirth in his eyes.

"Well then, I guess that I'll just trust that you're aware of the fact that in fairytales, the kiss only works if _both _parties involved are in love with each other."

Autor has always been too perceptive for his own good, so Fakir believes that he is perfectly justified in spitting out his tea all over his jacket.


	8. Wedding

**Written for youknownothingjonsnowisouralways on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

"_Have you ever tried to write about fakiru's wedding?"_

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Romance**

* * *

><p>It's a quiet affair in their kitchen of all places, one night in the dark after they step back through the threshold of their cottage. It had been clear that evening, so he had bundled her in his arms and the two had taken a walk down towards the lake to admire the stars. They come home late into the night after hours of tracing constellations and recounting stories, but the moon is still bright as it streams through the window: bright enough to see her eyes, and bright enough for him to see what shines within them. It is what gives him the courage to give her the gift he'd long since made.<p>

He sets her down on the kitchen table with promises of gifts and a hurried return, and sets off down the darkened hall to his—their—room. She waits patiently, unsure of what he could have and unknowing to how his hands tremble as they search through his desk for a small satin box. He returns moments later with the box clutched tightly in hand, and his breath catches as the silvery glow illuminates the blue of her eyes. He sits down beside her and places the box between them.

It's nothing extravagant, he insists with uncharacteristically clumsy speech, not like what he _wants_ to give her, because for someone so precious who asks for so little must surely deserve the world. She doesn't have to wear it by any means, not if she doesn't want to, of course. But he's saved up and he made these himself—with Charon's help, of course, because he's always been rubbish at smithing, but now he's rambling and she quacks softly to bring him back and he gives a small, earnest smile before petting her soft, downy head. The words come easily after that.

He opens the box and shows her two matching rings, their gold dimly shimmering as he lifts it up to show her one that dangles from a silver chain.

He'd meant it when he'd said forever, he tells her.

She stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, and he's never been sure if normal ducks could cry but she is a decidedly, wonderfully _abnormal_ duck and his heart swells when he can tell that they're tears of joy. He feels a few of his own prick at his eyes, and he promises her a thousand lifetimes and any time beyond them.

"I love you," He says, and he slips the chain around her neck.

She never utters a sound the whole time, but somehow he knows what she wants to say. He always knows, and it's why despite his tears he smiles so brightly as he slides his own ring on. No more words are spoken then, but he gives her a kiss atop her head to let her know that he knows that they're there.


	9. Space

**Written for lyriette on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"fakiru IN SPACE"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Angst, Romance, AU**

**WARNINGS: SPOILER-ISH FOR THE MOVIE "INTERSTELLAR"**

* * *

><p>She's shaking in his arms, and with every aching gasp of her breath he feels his heart splinter just that much more. Her tears are seeping through his shirt, wet and warm and sticky against his skin, and he holds her all the tighter for it.<p>

"I'm so-sorr-ry," She stammers, inhaling sharply at each syllable. "I kb-know it's sel-selfish of me."

"Not at all," He replies, his own voice raspy with unshed tears. "_I'm _the one who's selfish."

"Not at all!" She interjects, pulling away from him, and Fakir knows in the marrow of his bones that the blue of her eyes in this moment will be something he remembers to the day he dies. "Y-You're sacrificing so much for us. For _all_ of us."

_But at what cost?_ Fakir thinks, aggrieved. He knows at what cost. He knows what he's leaving behind here on Earth, and the knowledge sits bitterly on his tongue: a life, a home, a family in this tiny woman with bright, bright eyes. He's leaving behind the feel of her skin, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her breath as she whispers words of safety and love in the dark.

Fakir pulls her against him again, tightly.

"I love you," He whispers, and it is with these words that he cries. "I love you, Ahiru. No matter what, I love you. Forever. Beyond that. I love you."

"I know," Ahiru cries. Fakir can hear the gentle acquiescence in her voice, can feel the soft curve of her smile against his throat, and it breaks him.

* * *

><p>Through the launch he grips her necklace tightly. He's unable to feel it beneath the thick material of his gloves, but he knows well what it feels like from countless times before. Smooth and somehow warm, and shimmering like a diamond in sunlight. She had given it to him as he was packing the car to leave.<p>

"_I want you to take it,_" Ahiru had said, opening his palm and gently closing his fingers around it. _"So you have a piece of me with you. You know, to remember."_

_"How could I forget you?" _He had asked her with a chuckle, but not without tears in his eyes.

"_It's not to remember me,_" She had replied, her small hands holding his tightly. "_It's to remember to come home."_

Fakir feels the craft shake beneath him, hears the dull but thunderous roar of the engines propelling them through the atmosphere.

"_I'm coming back." _He had promised.

The first half of the spacecraft detaches, and soon the second as well. Soon enough only the main hull of the ship is rocketing towards Mars, the first leg on their crew's long journey. Fakir stares out one of the windows and watches the dusty blue of the Earth below them. Wonders where Ahiru is right now. Wonders what she's doing.

It had been early morning when they'd taken off, but she would be up making too much breakfast, feeding the birds on their windowsill and talking to her little tomato plant on the porch. He thinks of her alone in their house, and his throat tightens. Who will be there for her during thunderstorms? To help her reach the plates on the top shelf of the cupboard? To wipe away her tears when she cries? To carry her back to bed when she falls asleep on the couch after staying up too late? To make her laugh? To make her _happy?_

"I'm coming back," He whispers, clutching the pendant at his throat. _"I'm coming back._"

* * *

><p>"<em>Twenty-five years<em>?!" Fakir roars as he stumbles back into the main craft. He hears Rue collapse beside him in exhaustion, he himself still reeling from their dismal failure of a scouting mission. "How could it have been twenty-three years?"

"Relativity," Mytho shrugs, his amber eyes tired. He doesn't look as if he's aged much, except for in his eyes. "You and Rue knew that going down to that planet that there was a possibility of losing time."

"Not _that_ much time!" Fakir wails, rushing towards the aft of the ship where the communication stations were located. They've long ago stopped being able to send them out, but even after passing through the wormhole they were still able to receive video transmissions. He holds his breath as he flips through the ones sent to him, and sits down as he presses play.

Ahiru has been faithful to send him a video at least once a week for every year that's passed. It takes him well over five hours to finish all of the messages, and he cries when he sees in the most recent ones that her hair's begun to gray.

* * *

><p>It's quiet in space.<p>

Since Autor's demise back on the first planet, the ship has been quiet. Mytho and Rue keep to themselves and each other, engaging with him when they pass by but often preoccupied in their own melancholic musings. Perhaps it's because they've all finally begun to realize how perilous their mission truly is. But they knew it going in that there was a risk of death; a risk of obliteration. Loneliness. The possibility of never seeing another human face again.

But not in Fakir's mind. In his mind, he's still going home. He's coming back. He'd promised her.

His fingers slide down to the pendant at his throat, and somewhere he hears a clock ticking.

* * *

><p>Fakir does not dwell on how he's gotten back. He thinks to explosions and black holes and Relativity and luck, but everything feels like alcohol on still-fresh wounds, and he focuses on the door in front of him.<p>

It's been one hundred and three years, six days, eight hours, and twenty-nine minutes.

He holds his breath.

The doors slide open and he sees her lying on the stark-white hospital bed, small and frail and with hair as white as starlight. But her eyes are bright, and her smile is too. He collapses at her bedside, sobbing his apologies into her blanket.

Ahiru lays a tiny, wrinkled hand on his head, running it down his cheek and to his chin, where she nudges him to look up at her. Fakir looks up, gripping her hand in his much larger ones. Oh, how _small_ she is! His heart aches for all of the times he does not have. But she smiles like the day he'd left still, and moves to run her slender fingers over the pendant at his neck.

"You remembered," She whispered.

"Of course I did," He says, kissing her hand. It's soft and frail as rice paper, and he kisses it again and again and again, wishing with a breaking heart for it to be enough to soothe the ache in his bones.

Ahiru smiles again, and her eyes are bright, and this is what he wishes to remember of her when she passes away in his arms.

* * *

><p>That night he looks up at the stars, and wonders if he'd done right. Mankind has surely survived, but he feels no real belonging among them anymore. Maybe this is also a cost, he thinks: the cost of seeing too much, and of losing too much.<p>

He clutches the pendant, and he hears no sound.


	10. Roman

**Written for trixystix on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"Fakiru~! Umm umm Romans/Gladiator AU?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff(ish), AU**

* * *

><p>Fakir sits, sprawled on the cool marble of the palace floor. His <em>pallium<em> is drenched, as is his shirt beneath his scale armor. He scowls haughtily as he swipes his damp bangs off his face with his free hand.

"Do you not pay attention?" He demands, glaring at the small woman who had just barreled into him.

She's a tiny thing dressed in a light blue _stola_, strawberry red hair twisted into a simple braided knot on the top of her head. Neither her dress nor her hairstyle show her to be of any significant status, but Fakir can see several golden bangles and arm cuffs that suggests her to be one of the higher-placed servants. Her blue eyes are apologetic as she quickly wipes at his face with her _palla._

_"_I am so sorry, sir!" The young lady apologizes, dabbing at the water still dripping from his brow. He swats her hand away, and she flinches back. "I was in a rush to return to her majesty, and I must not have been paying attention-"

"Do not touch me," Fakir hisses. She recoils as if burned, lowering her blue gaze to the ground.

"My apologies, my Lord." She says quietly. To her side she notices his helmet, dropped in their collision, and offers it to him meekly.

He snatches the helmet from her and stands before he dusts himself off. Straightening his pallium on his shoulder, he whisks past her to continue on to the council chambers. "See to it that it does _not happen again._" Fakir warns, leaving her to pick up the pieces of the shattered vase from the floor.

"H-Hey!"

Fakir turns around, shocked at the sharp tone of her voice. "You could at least apologize as well, you know!"

"Excuse me?" Fakir bites, regarding this slip of a girl in a drenched gown on the floor. "Do you know who I am?"

"No," She says, and he can hear her resolve falter in her voice for a moment before her blue eyes regain their fire. "But I know that it is rude to knock into someone and not even apologize!"

"Are you daft? _You_ were the one who knocked into _me." _Fakir snaps.

"Th-That may be so," The girl counters, "But you were also rushing yourself, so I would say that it's a little bit your fault as well!"

Fakir gapes at her audacity, before shaking his head and regaining his wits. "This is absurd. I don't have time to deal with you." He declares, spinning on his heel.

"Jerk," He hears her mumble as he stalks down the hallway, and Fakir despises how a part of himself admires her moxie. With a deep scowl, he fixes his helmet upon his head and trudges ahead to the council room.

* * *

><p>"My apologies for my tardiness, your highness." Fakir says, kneeling before the emperor. His lip curls as he continues. "I had an unfortunate interaction in the hall that kept me."<p>

Mytho grins down at him from his seat at the head of the council, mirth in his eyes. "Did this interaction include a swim in the courtyard's fountain, Fakir?"

Fakir feels his face burn and he scowls. "No, your majesty. Merely a brainless servant girl who does not know how to pay attention when she should be."

Mytho laughs, and tells him to sit down. "I would offer you water, Fakir, but it seems as though you've already had some," He teases.

Fakir's glower remains throughout the meeting.

* * *

><p>When they are released from council, Fakir and Mytho take to roaming the hallways together. The two had grown up closely and often confided in the other, often taking the few hours before dinner to discuss whatever political turmoil was stewing at that moment. They are in the midst of a discussion over the expansion of Palmyra and its potential effect on trading when the coquettish laughs of young women float to their ears.<p>

Down the hallway they see the empress strolling towards the gardens, her deep purple stola and rich blue palla striking against her pale skin and dark, feathered hair. Followed behind her is a small gaggle of women, the one closest to her left chattering away being the woman who had crashed into Fakir earlier.

"That's the girl who crashed into me with that damned water vase!" Fakir scowls. Mytho turns his attention from his wife to the younger lady beside her, his features lightening in amusement.

"So I see that you've met the Lady Ahiru, then." He remarks. "She's Rue's newest lady-in-waiting. She's only been here for a week or two."

One of the girls had spotted them and then soon all of the women are looking at the two men at the end of the hall. It takes only a moment for the small group to make its way towards them.

"Esteemed husband," Rue greets, bowing her intricately braided head in respect. She turns to Fakir, garnet eyes flickering in amusement. "And Sir Fakir, a pleasure."

"Your Majesty," Fakir replies, bowing at the waist respectfully. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

Rue grins, side-eyeing the redhead who has seemed to shrink down to nonexistence at her side. "Nothing of particular importance," She says airily, and Fakir fights the urge to grimace. He too had grown up with Rue, and knows the tone of her voice well; it is one that he has heard many times throughout the years, and it never ends well for him. "I merely wished to introduce you to my newest attendant. Seeing as how you and my husband are such close friends, I would imagine that you two will see a great deal of each other from now on."

"Of course," He responds a little too stiffly.

Rue grins, and Fakir can tell from the slight shaking of Mytho's arms that the emperor himself is fighting to keep a straight face. Wretches, the both of them.

"This is Sir Fakir, _Magister Millitum_ of the Roman Cavalry and a close personal friend of both my husband and myself. Sir Fakir, this is my newest lady-in-waiting, Lady Ahiru." She guides the girl to her side, hand resting gently on her shoulders. "She's new here, and I am sure that you will do all you can to help her feel as welcomed as possible."

"Of course, Your Highness." He turns to this girl, Ahiru, and bows his head. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Ahiru." Fakir says through clenched teeth.

The girl jumps, as if the sound of her name on his lips is akin to the bite of a viper. She recovers, however, and curtsies deeply. "A pleasure, Sir Fakir," She says, distaste as thinly veiled as his own.

The two exchange venomous stares, which Mytho to his credit strategically disarms. "Fakir and I were just on our way to the royal study," He says. "Where are you off to, esteemed wife?"

"We were on our way to the gardens. They're lovely at this time of day," Rue says with a demure tilt of her lips. "I do not wish to keep you if you and Sir Fakir have business to attend to, Husband."

"So we shall meet again soon, yes?" Mytho cheerfully says, shepherding Fakir down the hallway like a sheep. "Please do enjoy the gardens."

"We will," Rue calls back, and the girls erupt in titters before disappearing down the corridor.

* * *

><p>Mytho's study is one of the few places in the palace that he and Fakir could afford to drop all formalities with one another, and it is exactly what Fakir does as soon as the heavy curtains are drawn closed.<p>

"What in the name of the Gods would Rue want an attendant like _her_ for?" He says. "She's brainless and pays absolutely no attention. Jupiter, it's as if she were a bird!"

Mytho sinks down into the plush seat behind his desk. "Fakir, you've met Ahiru all of once. I feel like that is hardly a fair assumption to make of her."

"I've seen her as many times as I've needed to." He replies. "In fact, this is the first time I've ever seen her face, new to the palace or not. What family does she belong to?"

"She belongs to none. She was born with no standing to speak of."

"A citizen in the court?" Fakir gapes. "How did Rue ever find her?"

Mytho smiles, this time with fondness. "She had been a background performer for a travelling show that Rue had gone to see while we were in Neapolis. As they were leaving Rue realized that she had lost her brooch, and when she sent one of the guards to find it they brought back a rather battered-looking Lady Ahiru."

Fakir quirks a brow at this. "Battered?"

"Mmm. It seems that one of her fellow performers found it and saw fit to keep it for themselves. Lady Ahiru had disagreed, and fought them to return it."

"Why would she do something so foolish?" Fakir scoffs. "She's the size of an olive branch."

"That's precisely what Rue asked," Mytho chuckles. "Lady Ahiru just told her simply that, and I quote, '_stealing is wrong, especially from somebody who seems so nice_'. Needless to say, Rue took quite a liking to her after that and insisted she come back with her."

Fakir frowns thoughtfully and looks out the window towards the sprawling complex of the gardens below them. He can see Rue lounging by a fountain, the girls sprawled out on the grass around her as they all chatted happily with one another. He spots Ahiru to Rue's immediate left, beside her on the lip of the fountain. Even from a distance, he can tell of Rue's fondness for the girl.

"My, have I piqued your interest in the Lady Ahiru, Fakir?" Mytho teases, laying a hand on Fakir's shoulder. Fakir fights the urge to blush, sucking his teeth before whisking himself away from the window.

"You should refrain from the wine at dinner tonight, Your Highness," Fakir sneers. "It seems to be clouding your head."

Mytho laughs, waving his jab off with a shake of his hand. "I only tease, Fakir."

"Of course. If you'll excuse me," Fakir says, slipping out the door. "I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like wondering how on earth our empire manages beneath the rule of such a frivolous emperor."

"I'll give you a hint to that, Fakir," Mytho says with no shortness of mirth, "Behind every great man, there is a great woman."

"Your romanticism compels me," Fakir drawls.

Mytho waves him off good-naturedly. "You'll understand one day, Fakir." The young emperor makes a glance towards the window, where the sound of bell-like voices ring out from the gardens. "Perhaps even sooner than you think."

"I await with bated breath."

"See that you do. I will see you at dinner, then?"

"Of course." Fakir says, and with a small bow, he slips through the curtains and out to the hall. It isn't until he is a ways away from the study that he allows himself to ponder his good friend's words.

_Behind every great man…_

He thinks to the redhead with her wide blue eyes, sitting in a puddle of water, and scoffs.


	11. Mermaid

**Written for alimarie747 on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"Clumsy, can't-sing-to-save-her-life mermaid/siren!Ahiru and impervious-to-siren-calls, somehow-falls-for-the-squawky-siren sailor!Fakir?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff, AU**

* * *

><p>"I'm actually surprised."<p>

Ahiru looks up at him from her spot in the tide pool beneath him, blue eyes wide and quizzical. She's fiddling with her long tangle of strawberry locks, trying in vain to comb them with the small tortoise-shell comb Fakir had found in the marketplace for her in the last port they had docked in. He idly remembers the time he'd found her trying to brush her hair out with a fork, and his defense to this day for buying her that comb is that he simply couldn't handle watching her idiocy any longer. She had accepted the gift enthusiastically and has spoken about the trinket to every gull from here to London.

She pauses in her efforts to give him her rapt attention, idly sticking it in her hair to keep it safe.

"Hm? About what?"

Fakir shrugs, looking towards the cresting waves beating against the rocky coast. For some reason, he can't seem to look in her eyes as he talks.

"You're the only mermaid who didn't try to sing to me when we met."

Since meeting Ahiru, it's actually sort of ridiculous how many mermaids he's met. He remembers Charon spinning tales about mermaids when he was a small child perched on his lap, listened to stories of how beautiful and otherworldly and mysterious they were, and how men will spend their entire lives searching for them. Fakir scoffs. He has absolutely no idea _how_ people could spend their entire lives searching for them: the ocean seems to be literally _infested_ with them.

Since setting sail from Germany, they've met dozens of them. It seems that they can't sail ten knots without seeing one. And every single one without fail has tried to seduce him with song. First was Freya and her rendition of "_The Nightingale"_, then Lilie and Pique with their duet of _"The Drowned Lover"_. They'd met Malen with her cover of "_Toll for the Brave"_, and Hermia not soon after crooning _"The Fair Sailor Lad"_. He's heard just about every sailor's song imaginable at this point from many different mermaids, all haunting and melodious and tempting in their offers but never quite enough to pull him in since Ahiru would always make a hasty entrance and fend off their efforts.

Fakir quirks a brow down at her when she does not answer after a moment, and sees that she's blushing from fin to freckles. He squints as she begins to pick at her split ends, and muses, "Come to think of it, I don't think I've _ever_ heard you sing."

Ahiru's blush darkens to an interesting purple, and her giggle takes on a high-pitched, guilty chime. "Tha—That's just silly, Fakir. Of course you've heard me sing." She says all too quickly to be even somewhat believable.

"Oh, really?" He pushes. "Then what did you sing to me when we met? My memory seems to be a bit _fuzzy_."

Ahiru laughs again, and starts frantically combing at her hair again. "Oh, you remember! It was that one song with the words about the ship and that guy…" Fakir stares at her until she's visibly squirming. Her hair in consequence to her fervent attentions just becomes even more mussed. Finally, after hitting a particularly stubborn snare, she bursts like a boiling teakettle.

"Okay, okay! I've never sung in front of you before!" She admits with a whine. "I didn't think it'd be worth it."

Frankly, Fakir is a little stung by the comment. But he plays it off with a seasoned tilt of his lips and a familiar furrowing of his brow. "Gee, thanks." He deadpans.

Ahiru finally looks at him and her eyes are wide and panicked, sunkissed skin rosy with mortification. "No, that's not it!" She insists, waving her hands frantically about. "I just didn't think it would work, is all! Not that you aren't worth it, I mean you _are,_ like, who wouldn't want to—erm, what I'm trying to say is, well, what I _mean_ is—"

"Spit it out already." Fakir snaps.

"_I can't sing, okay?"_

Fakir blinks once, twice, three times. Studies her frazzled expression in her aquamarine eyes, the deep stain of sunburn that colors her cheeks and shoulders, the slight pout of her lip. And then he snorts.

"It's not funny, you big jerk!" Ahiru shouts, splashing at him with the shallow water around her.

"The _worst—_" Fakir smirks, holding up an arm to block her sprays. "You are a _terrible_ mermaid. Honestly. What kind of mermaid doesn't know how to _sing?_ Isn't that what mermaids _do?"_

"Shut up!" Ahiru wails, splashing her tail in self-consciousness. Her thrashing makes the pool shimmer with ripples, and Fakir can't help but notice the way the sunlight catches on her scales. "I _know_ that I'm a terrible mermaid, okay! That doesn't mean that you have to be a jerk about it."

Fakir actually feels bad; Ahiru looks genuinely upset by his teasing. And he realizes suddenly how terrible it must actually be to be a mermaid who can't sing; Ahiru has explained many times how singing is how they find their mates.

_"__We don't drown them, we turn them!" _She had insisted one night during a heated conversation as to Mytho's fate with Rue. _"When a man hears a mermaid's song and falls in love, it's not them being bewitched or anything, it's them realizing that it's their soulmate!"_

"_Either way, you drag them into the ocean and never let them see the light of day again," _He had replied with a less than kind tone. The memory makes something akin to guilt burn in his breast; that had been the first time they'd met after Rue had taken Mytho and Fakir had been searching for them. He'd gone looking for leads on the siren who'd taken his charge, and ended up finding a redheaded mermaid trapped by low tide chattering idly with birds.

"Come on," Fakir offers with what he hopes sounds like sincerity, "It can't be _that_ bad."

"Yes it can," She mumbles, sinking down to blow dejected bubbles in the water with her lips.

"Don't pout about it, moron."

"I'm not a moron!" She shouts, whirling around and hurling the comb at his head. He dodges easily and hears it land in a nearby pool. "Stupid Fakir," She grumbles, drifting to the far side of her little tide pool.

Fakir sighs, getting up to go look for her comb. He knows that she can't exactly go herself to search and he refuses to listen to her whine about losing it for the next three weeks at sea, so he kicks off his boots and rolls up his trousers and proceeds to wade in the water, skimming for the dainty comb. He feels her eyes on him, and he pays her no mind; probably wishing for a flock of her loyal minions to swoop down from the sky and peck at his nose.

And then he hears her.

It's soft, barely audible against the crash of waves against the shore, but he hears her:

"_That she who's in distress may find, such friends as ne'er will fail her…_

He vaguely registers the feel of the tortoise shell comb in his hand, grasps it and stands and turns to face her with something very _unlike_ guilt now ready to burst through his ribs like a bird escaping a cage. Fakir stands in the pool just like this, trousers unrolling and soaking up the salty water and hair mussed by sea breezes and wide-eyed and completely disbelieving.

She's absolutely _dreadful._

"_But the standing toast, that pleased the most…"_

Awful.

_"__Was 'The wind that blows, the ship that goes…"_

He walks towards her, crouches down to look at her as she peers shyly up from him from beneath her dampened curls of hair. Her eyes are shining, luminous and big and so, so blue. How on earth can there be such a blue?

"_And the lass that loves a sailor." _She finishes meekly, warbling and horrendously off-key.

"That," Fakir's throat is suddenly very dry. He gingerly takes her comb and tucks it into her hair behind her ear to hold back the unruly strands. Her eyes are still watching him, still embarrassed, and still very, very blue. "Was terrible."

She stares at him for a moment with rosy cheeks before his words seem to process, and then her face flushes in righteous fury. "You _jerk!" _She howls, splashing him full in the face. Fakir reels back, spluttering water, and admittedly he deserves it.

She does not speak to him until the tide comes in and they return to the ship, and even then it's a tense silence until night falls. The crew is asleep except for Fakir, who sits between the rails of the ship to keep Ahiru company. She still refuses to talk to him, embarrassed by his earlier critique and angry at his insensitivity. Usually he'd take this break from her incessant chatter to be a welcomed relief, but her icy silence sits uncomfortably in his stomach, and he uncharacteristically is the first to speak.

"I was serious. Your singing voice is bad. Really bad. You're so off-key it's actually painful." He starts, and judging by her face, it is a poor one. But he continues, because the fluttering bird in his chest has refused to calm since he heard her. "But I never said I didn't like it."

Ahiru stares up at him in disbelief. "You…You _like_ my singing?"

He's shocked, too. "Yeah. It reminds me of my mother. Couldn't carry a note to save her life." He pauses when he hears her huff. The sun has set and the clouds conceal the moon, and for a while he can't make out her face from the dark waves of the water beneath them. But he knows she's there, so he continues. "I always liked listening to her, though."

She does not make a sound, and all he hears for a stretch of time is the rolling of waves and the creaks of the wooden planks beneath him until he thinks that maybe he'd been mistaken and had driven her away, but then he hears it.

And just like before, it starts off softly.

_"__The moon on the ocean, was dimmed by a ripple, affording a chequered delight…"_

Fakir reclines on the deck to listen to her, and thinks of the irony of how, out of all of the mermaid songs he's heard, this is the one that gets him.


	12. Understanding

**Written for zeifure on tumblr.**

**Rating: T**

**Genres: Romance**

* * *

><p>Ahiru knows that people look them and wonder.<p>

He's tall and brooding and almost absurdly handsome with his dark hair and olive skin and green, green eyes. The prodigy alumnus of Kinkan Academy's ballet division, best-selling author of endearingly odd, not-quite-fairytales. He's making a name for himself with his own scarred, calloused hands, and people are taking notice.

Age has only brought Fakir good things: At twenty-six he stands tall with broad, squared shoulders and a sharpened jaw that commands admiration. His hair has grown longer and his voice has grown deeper, and despite the occupational shift he looks every bit the valiant knight that he'd striven to be as a teen.

It's enough to make people look, and it's when they look that they inevitably see her dawdling beside him: still short and still slim and still freckled and still startled by her own limbs. Her hair still commands just as much attention at twenty-two as it did at thirteen, despite the fact that she wears it in a much more tamed bun, and her voice still rasps as if she's not quite over a cold. Her dancing has made leaps and bounds but she's still short on grace, and her eyes have yet to lose their childish, dewy shimmer.

Ahiru knows that they look, and knows what they wonder. And she supposes that if she were to glance them on the street that she too would be a little perplexed at the sight of them. But it's a hard perspective to truly _understand_ when she knows the way he looks at her from across the room. These people don't know the feel of Fakir's fingers tangling gently with hers as he pulls her through a crowd at the market or the protective press of his hand on the small of her back.

How can they know if they don't know of the scar on his hand, of the story they once rewrote? How can they comprehend it when they don't know of the years by the lake and the tears and frustrations and their ultimate triumph? Even more simply, how can they understand them when they've never heard the comfortable quiet that settles over them after dinner, when he's curled beside her with a book by the fire? How can they possibly understand when they've never seen him take her gently by the hand and dance to the sound of the rain on the windows?

She is the only one who knows the silk of his hair and the smell of ink and burning wood that forever lingers on his skin. No one but her knows the gossamer beat of his heart beneath her ear, no one but her knows what it feels like to have the mist of his breath fan across her neck as he pulls her tighter. The words that are whispered between each other's lips as they sway to music that only they know are their secret.

These things are hers and hers alone, and it's because of these things that Ahiru knows but does not dwell. Instead, she simply raises his hand to her lips and breathes.


	13. Mermaid, 2

**Prequel to Chapter 11, "Mermaid".**

**Rating: T**

**Genres: Action, Comedy, Adventure, AU**

* * *

><p>Fakir clutches the grip of his sword tightly, knuckles bleached white against his sun-tanned skin. He can hear girlish chatter echoing from around the bend in the cove, and he takes a steadying breath of salt air as he creeps ever closer.<p>

He peers around the bend and it's exactly what he thought: A girl basking in the shallows of an inlet, speaking animatedly with a small flock of seagulls. Her long strawberry hair floats around her in dampened tendrils, curled and waved from the salt of the sea and the warm summer breeze. He waits, breathes in the smell of low tide and sun-warmed sand as his jadeite eyes fix on the shimmering waves of the pool by her waist. At first he fears it's a trick of the light, but then Fakir sees it again:

A flicker of a long tail, pearl white and orange scales glittering like diamonds in the streaks of morning sunlight.

He wastes no time in striking.

"Where is he?" Fakir roars, voice booming off of the rock walls like a roll of thunder. The mermaid shrieks and the gulls go flying in a mess of squalls and feathers, and he takes the distraction as a chance to approach.

She dives into the pool in a futile attempt to escape, but the water has been blocked off from the sea until the next high tide. She must realize the precariousness of her situation, because she desperately starts to try and climb over the sand dunes and rocks separating her from the open sea.

Fakir leaps into the shallow pool, wading over to her with a snarl. He grabs her shoulder with his free hand and spins her around to face him.

She's not the seductive vixen that he's heard discussed over pints of ale in the galley of ships and the beaten-up bars of salty taverns, but she's still striking with her gently freckled nose and wide doe eyes. Fakir can tell by the stormy blue of her irises that he's frightened her, and he can't help but think, _good._

"Where is he?" He demands again, squeezing her shoulder. The mermaid looks up at him with those dewy eyes, curled in upon herself in terror at the sword that gleams in his other fist. When she does not respond, he shakes her. "_I said where is he?!"_

"Who?" She finally bursts, voice loud and not at all sultry.

"You know who," Fakir snaps. "Prince Siegfried! I saw one of your kind lure him into the sea just the other night!"

The mermaid's eyes widen and her brow furrows in confusion, and Fakir feels his patience wearing thin. But suddenly a look of horror crosses her face, and she whispers a terrified, "_Oh no!"_

"You know something, don't you? _Tell me_!" Fakir barks.

The girl snarls back, blue eyes sparking to life as she gives him a rough swat of her tail. She's not particularly strong, but it's enough of a surprise to throw Fakir off-balance. She uses the opportunity to hurriedly swim to the other side of the pool and scramble up onto the land, dragging herself across the sand. He begrudgingly admires her tenacity, but honestly he can't fathom how she thinks that she can escape him _on land._ He runs a hand through his now-wet hair, and climbs out of the pool.

She's making shocking progress, scrambling across the sand towards the edge of the water, but he can tell that the sand is hot and uncomfortable against her scales. He scoops her up and throws her over his shoulder. She shrieks again, thrashing about in his arms as he carries her back to the shallow tide pool. Her long golden tail swats at him furiously, and he hisses in pain when her tail collides with his nose.

"Let go of me!" She shouts angrily. "Let _go!"_

"Gladly," He deadpans, dropping her unceremoniously into the water. She comes up spluttering, whipping her long hair out of her face with a wet _slap_ against her back.

"You jerk!" She protests, straightening it out to properly cover her form again. Fakir glowers down at her in aggravation.

"You're welcome, you moron." He sneers, rubbing his still-sore nose. "Honestly, did you really think that you could get to the water by crawling across the sand? You're a complete idiot."

"I could have made it," She pouts, crossing her arms. She swims towards the far end of the pool, and Fakir can tell from the stiff set of her shoulders that it's because she doesn't trust him. Good call. He fixes his grip on his sword.

"Now tell me what you know. You _do_ know the prince, don't you?"

The mermaid is silent, staring defiantly at the far wall. Fakir rubs his temples. "Don't make me come back in there after you."

"Why should I tell you anything, you big jerk?" She hisses.

Fakir's eyebrow twitches. "You're not exactly in a position to be putting up a fight, you know. I'd just tell me what I want to know, or it won't end well for you."

"How so?" She presses.

Fakir nods towards his sword, and back to her. "You really want me to say?"

"You wouldn't," The mermaid says, and it sounds surprisingly unlike a challenge so more as a fact.

Fakir scowls, holding up his sword to her. "How do you know what I would and wouldn't do?"

And then the mermaid does the most peculiar thing: She swims towards him slowly, aquamarine eyes never leaving his own. When she's close enough she pulls herself up from the water, and Fakir takes a step back at her advance with a sudden self-consciousness that makes him scowl. But she makes no move to follow, merely staring into his own eyes before making a decisive nod and falling back in, floating around leisurely as if he _wasn't_ brandishing a sword with the intent to use it.

"H-Hey!" He calls, angry. "What was that?"

"Just making sure that I was right. And I am. You wouldn't _actually_ hurt me." She says, entirely too cocky for his own liking.

"And just how do you know that?"

"You may be a big jerk, but you have nice eyes."

Fakir is taken aback, startled and a touch more than annoyed at just how sure she seems to be of this. He's a knight, dammit, and he should be taken _seriously._

"_Nice _eyes or no, I won't hesitate to use this if you don't tell me the information I'm looking for." He threatens, pointing his sword at her. But she merely scoffs at him, twirling around in the water like she's not at the business end of sharpened steel held by a man with waning patience. He growls. "Dammit, _answer me!"_

"Nah." The mermaid replies, continuing about her not-business.

His pride wants him to simply be rid of her, but his gut nags at him something fierce to hone in his temper and wait. Fakir curses and finally sheathes his weapon and sits cross-legged at the edge of the water. "Fine. But I'm not leaving you alone until you tell me what you know." He scowls.

She looks up at him with those big blue eyes, face half-submerged, and the corners of her lips quirk up above the water in an irritating smile. "See? I knew you wouldn't hurt me."

"Don't tempt me," Fakir sneers.

* * *

><p>It's another seven hours before the tide comes in, and Fakir is close to pitching a fit. The mermaid—Ahiru, he'd learned is her name—is entirely unhelpful in virtually every aspect. She answers every question with either a "no" or an even more frustrating "I don't know," and he's at his breaking point. He's wasted an entire day interrogating a mermaid that he's come to learn hasn't even had contact with others of her kind for <em>months<em>, and he can feel the sunburn searing on his neck and ears. It's nothing he hasn't dealt with before, what with being on the seas most of his life, but it's still enough to sully his already foul mood.

Fakir honestly doesn't know why he's bothering. Ahiru has given him no relevant information; actually it feels as though he's _losing_ intelligence by indulging her in conversation. But he's held his fair share of interrogations, and his instincts have yet to lead him astray. It's only a matter of time until she slips on _something_.

"So," Fakir drawls, watching her tail flicker lazily in the shallow green waters. "A clownfish. Fitting."

Ahiru puffs her cheeks in offense. "And what's wrong with clownfish, huh?"

"Obviously something if you took so much offense in my stating the obvious."

She squints at him, mouth tugging down in a sharp line. "I don't like you very much."

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual." Fakir runs his handkerchief down the length of his blade again, polishing it to a gleaming shine. He holds it up to examine it in the sunlight and fights to keep a satisfied smirk off of his face when the glint hits her in the eyes. "If you would just tell me what I'd like to know, I'd leave you alone and we could both forget this entire miserable encounter."

"Please," Ahiru snorts. "As if I'm actually going to tell you about Ru—"

She slaps a hand over her own mouth, eyes wider than china plates. Fakir's own eyes glint dangerously from behind his bangs.

"Tell me about…._what?_"

For a moment she looks nothing short of a frenzied panic. She tries to recover with a smile and a laugh but it falls miserably short. "About—about _ruuuuh…_tever it is you're looking for, aheheh…"

Fakir slowly rises and steps into the pool. His fury is a thinly veiled miasma, quiet and intimidating as he stalks up to her like a wolf cornering a sheep.

"Were you just about to say _Rue?_" He demands lowly.

This startles her so much that it seems to slip before she can think. "You know Rue?"

"I know that the Prince kept mentioning something about a Rue before he disappeared," Fakir says, voice venomous. "So it's this Rue who's taken him, huh? I was wrong, I guess you _were_ useful for something."

He turns on his heel and leaves her in the pool. Her shock and confusion is palpable in her voice as she calls out to him, but he does not bother to listen to what she says. Fakir makes to climb out of the pool when a hand closes around his leg.

"What are you doing?" Ahiru asks. She attempts to yank him back into the water, as if she's actually strong enough to do so. He shakes her hand off and climbs out, reaching for his sword.

"Going fishing," Fakir bites, stalking away. He gets maybe three feet away when his feet are pulled out from beneath him and he gracelessly plants his face into the ground. He turns behind him, spitting out sand. "What the _hell are you doing?"_

Ahiru has leapt from the pool and has latched herself to his leg. "You can't!" She shouts at him.

"Watch me!" He shouts back, struggling to his feet. He's able to hobble another foot but Ahiru's grip is a vice around his right ankle and he _can't shake her off, dammit._He drags her across the sand for another few feet but she's heavy and he's at his wit's end.

"_Get off!"_

"_No!_"

"Get off before I _make you_ get off!"

"Then do it!" She challenges, blue eyes like sparks. "I'm not going to let you hurt Rue!"

"And I'm not going to let your little friend kidnap my charge. Now unhand me while you still have _hands_." Fakir threatens.

"Take me with you!"

He pauses at her change of tactics. Of all of the absurd requests.

"And why would I do something as pointless as that?" He says.

Ahiru looks pathetic as he stares down at her; covered in sand and hair in tangles, eyes teary and frustrated. But when her eyes meet his, there's a burning in them. "I can help," She offers. "I'm a mermaid. I know about mermaid things and I know Rue and I can help you find them."

He makes to turn away again, dismissive, but she yanks harder and he nearly stumbles again. "Would you cut that out?" He snaps.

"Rue is the fastest swimmer I know. If you go around with some big ship looking all over the place you'll never find her. I can help," She says. "I can talk to fish. I can talk to birds. I can _help_."

"No thanks." Fakir says. He gives his leg one harsh shake and knocks her off, stalking away.

"_I know how to turn him back!"_

This stops Fakir dead in his tracks. He turns around to where Ahiru lays in the sand, panting and perseverant. He walks back to her, watches as she tries to brush the sand off of her scales.

"And I suppose that you won't be sharing this information without a price?" He sneers.

Ahiru glares at him, and for the briefest moment Fakir respects the steel that settles in the set of her jaw. "I'll help you find the Prince and turn him back, but you can't hurt Rue."

Fakir is torn: On one hand he could walk away and leave her to dry out on the sand, but on the other his instincts are telling him to accept her offer. But can he really trust such an airheaded girl to help him? Can he trust her knowing that she cares for who he's after?

"How do I know that you won't betray me?" He challenges.

"Because you can kill me instead if I do."

Fakir is not expecting this. He wants to deny her, wants to say no, but there's something in the gleam of her eyes that tells him her words are truth. It's a long stretch of silence before he finally extends his hand down to hers to shake it.

"Very well. I will not hurt this Rue so long as you and she cooperate. You are also to listen to my orders and mine alone, understand?"

Ahiru bites her lip but takes his hand anyway and shakes it. Her handshake is firm.

"Very well," He says, and hauls her up and walks her to the shore. She squirms in his hold again, and he is no more gentle than before when he dumps her into the water.

"Meet me in the port at dawn." He says, ignoring her spluttering and complaints "We're shipping out."


	14. Tarts

**Written for anonymous on tumblr. Sequel to chapter 7, "Kiss".**

**The prompt:**

_"Could you do a fic where Ahiru makes Autor and Fakir spend time together? I know it's kind of vague, but I just picture Ahiru trying to make them get along because she thinks it's important for Fakir to spend time with a living relative."_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff**

* * *

><p>It's been twenty-two minutes since either of them have said a word, and Fakir is uncomfortable.<p>

Silences are not something that Fakir finds particularly unpleasant in themselves; in fact they're often a welcomed thing, being very few and far between what with his chatterbox of a roommate's recent transformation. But this particular silence is laced with insinuations that Fakir is none too fond of. He turns away to look out the window, chin perched on his fist.

The quiet ticking of the grandfather clock on the far side of the room is pronounced in their pause, and Fakir glances irritatedly at his lunch companion when he takes a loud sip of his tea.

"So," Autor starts, and just by his tone Fakir can already tell that he isn't going to like where this is going. "You still haven't told her, have you?"

Fakir glares at him from the corner of his eye. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" He snaps.

"Not at all. I'm free as a bird until two o'clock. I made sure I left ample room in my schedule for your…_**guest's**_…_generous_ invitation. "

Fakir glowers. Of all of the pointless, moronic things Ahiru has talked him into, this is by far the worst. How on earth she got him to agree to lunch with his cousin, he will never begin to understand. Something about the '_importance of family_' and _'quality time'_ or some other equally frivolous nonsense. But however she managed to actually do it, Fakir now finds himself host to his only, persnickety relative.

The clock's ticking grows significantly more pronounced.

"Well whatever my _guest_—" The word feels strange on his tongue, and it makes his scowl deepen. "—has told you, I would encourage you to make your exit soon. After all, you more than anyone would know that I've got a deadline coming up."

"Don't I," Autor drawls, sipping his tea—Drosselmeyer's preferred blend. Fakir doesn't know how Ahiru even knew what kind of tea his cousin drinks, or where she even got it from, but then again she is not someone who he wishes to look at too closely at the moment. "And it's precisely for this reason why I'm glad that duck of yours—"

"Her name is Ahiru," Fakir cuts in.

"—invited me over." Autor gestures to the stack of papers on the table; Fakir's latest works. "Your writing has been abhorrent lately."

"You're too kind," Fakir deadpans.

"I'm serious. You're not going to sell a single copy if you keep it up with this half-hearted drivel."

The table clatters when Fakir hits it while crossing his legs. "Well, what do _you_ suggest, then?"

The man reaches over the small sandwiches on the table and pours himself another cup of tea from the teapot sitting between them. "I suggest that you hurry up and find an end to this story."

"An end?"

"Yes, an end." Autor says. "Everything you've written since your duck—"

"_**Ahiru**_."

"—turned human again has been the same mindless, sappy rubbish. Every single bit of writing you've turned out is half-finished: the girl is back to normal, and her hero is sitting there like a petulant toddler. So you've got a transformation, the curse is broken. Now what? You need to figure it out. Nobody wants to read about your ineptitude, Fakir."

His face is scalding hot from offense and acute embarrassment.

"So what would _you_ have me do, then, if you're such an expert?" Fakir scowls.

"Well first, I would have you quit being such a baby and tell her so you can write a proper ending to this story. You've done it before, you can do it again." Autor leans back, and after a moment a small grin cracks across his sober face. "Second, I would have you cut that mop you call hair."

"Would you look at that," Fakir hisses, completely aware that the chime of the clock only announces the time to be one-fifteen. "_Time for you to leave._"

* * *

><p>After he shows Autor to the door with the placating promise of finishing his manuscript to acceptable standards, Fakir notices Ahiru making her way down the street.<p>

"Oh, hello, Autor!" She chirps excitedly when she spots their departing guest at the gate.

Autor turns around and gives a curt nod. "Ahiru," He greets. "Thank you again for your invitation."

Ahiru's blue eyes blink in surprise. "You're leaving already?"

"I'm afraid so. I have a previous commitment that I must be seeing to." Autor turns to Fakir with a sly grin, glasses glinting in the afternoon sun. Fakir fights the urge to grimace. "Fakir, I trust that you'll have that manuscript finished for me soon, yes?"

"Of course," He responds, teeth clenched. "You should be leaving now, yes?"

"Quite." With one last nod to Ahiru and one last smirk toward Fakir, the young man is off.

"That's too bad that he had to leave so soon," Ahiru frowns, balancing the large basket of groceries in her hands.

"Too bad, indeed." Fakir grumbles, herding her inside before closing the door with one last glare down the now-empty street.

* * *

><p>The two enter their cottage, making their way to the kitchen to put the groceries away in the cupboards. Fakir is busy storing the vegetables in the ice box while Ahiru prattles on about the marketplace. There's not much left to put away when Fakir turns back to check the basket, but there's a little white box done up in string. He picks it up, recognizing it as a pastry box.<p>

"Oh, that's from Miss Ebine's! I thought I'd pick up some sweets for after your lunch with Autor, but I guess we won't be needing them." She looks at him over her shoulder while she stands on her tiptoes to put the bread away on the shelf above the counter. "So, how did it go?"

"Fine," Fakir answers, placing the pastries on the counter beside her. He does not elaborate, electing to instead watch Ahiru's strawberry braid sway with her efforts to reach the top shelf. He becomes enamored with the way she bites her tongue and the determined scrunch of her freckled nose.

"That's great! I'm really glad that you agreed to have him over," She says, straining to reach such a tall shelf with her small stature. "After all, I think it's important to spend time with your fa—" She's cut off when Fakir materializes behind her, back pressed to his chest as his form encompasses her like a shroud. He plucks the loaf of bread from her hands and replaces it on the shelf easily. She turns around and looks up at his face, her own flushed a pretty pink, and Fakir hears Autor's words play in his head.

_'Hurry up and find an end.'_

Ahiru's watching him with wide cerulean eyes and that's it, he gives up. He used to be a knight, a protector, a man who helped to end a story and give it a happy ending.

"Fa—_Fakir_?" Her squeak is surprised and embarrassed, and Fakir can't help but inhale the scent of her hair as his lips linger on her forehead. She's warm and smells of sunlight and lemon tarts, and he's lying to himself if he thinks that the ending as is, is happy enough.

He pulls away, pressing his forehead shyly to hers. She doesn't pull away, which he will take as a good sign, although it still takes him a moment to muster the gumption to look her in the eye.

"I wrote a story," Fakir says, and his face is close to setting itself on fire. "That's how I turned you back. To a human, that is."

"Wait, so that night, you…" Ahiru blinks once before the realization of his actions dawns on her and her face flushes a deep red.

_"QUA?!"_

* * *

><p>Autor finds the manuscript in the mailbox the next morning. He gives it a small flip through to see if his eccentric cousin had kept true to his word and sure enough, there is a proper (<em>if not cliché<em>) happy ending with the princess and hero living happily ever after. What surprises him, however, is the presence of a small note on a scrap piece of paper tucked between the last two pages written in familiar, messy scrawl:

_'Lunch Tuesday, 1pm—bring tarts.'_

Autor grins.

Now if only he can make that fool get a haircut.


	15. Coffee, 2

**Written as a tribute on tumblr to lyriette/dreamicide's fanfic "Hot for Teacher" on AO3.** **Part of the College AU; same universe as Chapter 2, "Coffee"**

**Rating: T**

**Genres: Comedy, AU**

* * *

><p>He is screwed.<p>

"I am screwed."

Mytho glances down at him from his seat at the kitchen table, sipping idly on a margarita. The professor is sprawled across the laminate tile, feet elevated on a chair, sipping on a lukewarm beer. Fakir hates beer. It looks like piss and tastes like sewer water, but at least when he's drinking it he can focus on his hatred for _that_ instead of his hatred for himself. He finishes it off in three long chugs, and waves his hand towards Mytho for another.

"You are screwed," Mytho agrees, handing him a new one from the twelve pack on the table.

"Did I tell you that she gave me a valentine? A valentine. It was this stupid little yellow paper duck with a lollipop and I kept it. I kept it." Fakir groans and runs a hand down his face in misery. "_Why did I keep it?_" He whines.

The room feels hot, but the floor feels cool on his back. He pops the cap off of the bottle and relishes in its coldness despite the uncomfortable sensation of carbonation burning down his throat.

"Why, indeed." Mytho says airily.

Fakir opens an eye to glare at his best friend. Mytho meets his glare with a look of barely-veiled mirth, and it makes Fakir want to flick the cap at him. "You are incredibly unhelpful, you know that?"

"So you've told me before."

"I'm serious, Mytho. This is a problem. A _huge_ problem."

"Not as big of a problem as we'll have when Rue comes back and sees you drunk on our kitchen floor. You know she still hasn't forgiven you for that B, right?"

"Okay first of all, I'm not on the floor because I'm _drunk_, I'm on the floor because your apartment is hotter than the seventh ring of Hell. If you're cold, put on pants." Fakir snaps. "Second of all, her argument was terrible in that essay. If she wanted an A, she should've read the literature more closely. Seriously, who the hell would ever argue that Romeo and Juliet had a functional relationship? Do you realize how many people ended up dead over those two?"

"I feel like that's a matter of opinion, Fakir. There's a reason why it's considered by many to be one of the greatest romantic pieces of all time."

Fakir scoffs. "Romeo & Juliet is not a romance, it's a _tragedy_. The fact that it's regarded as such a romantic piece just goes to show how many morons inhabit the earth."

At the mentioning of morons, Fakir groans again. "Mytho, what am I going to do?"

"About what?"

Fakir makes to claw at his hair. "_About the fact that I'm attracted to one of my students!_" He shouts.

"Why is this so upsetting? There's not a terribly large age gap between you two. Besides, she won't be your student much longer, right?"

"That's not the point! The point is that this is _obscenely_ inappropriate and could cost me my _job_."

Mytho hums, taking another sip of his margarita.

"Well, would it be worth it?"

Fakir swallows another sip of beer. "Would _what_ be worth it?"

"Would Ahiru be worth it?"

Fakir pauses, then turns his head away. "No."

"You're lying, Fakir."

Fakir sits up, scowling. "I am not! Nothing is worth losing my job over. You know how hard I worked to get this job. I am not getting fired my first year over some idiot who thought that _Animal Farm_ was a _children's tale_."

He takes another disgruntled swig of his rapidly warming beer. The room feels even hotter than before, and if he weren't in the middle of an existential crisis he'd get up and open the window to let in some of the cool March air. Maybe even rip out the thermostat while he's at it because _who the hell keeps their heat on 80 degrees_, but for now he settles with lying back down on the cool tiled floor to continue wallowing in his own self-pity.

Mytho stands and goes to make himself another drink. "I think that you should go for it."

Fakir stares at him incredulously. "No. _No more tequila for you_, because you are _clearly_ drunk if you think that my dating a student is even a remotely good idea."

Mytho ignores him and continues to pour more tequila in the blender. "But why is it so inappropriate? If you simply wait until she's no longer in your class it should be alright, no? You'd both be two consenting adults with no conflict of interest."

Fakir strains to talk over the roar of the blender. "It doesn't matter if she's in my class or not, she's still a student and I'm a professor. As long as she goes to this school, it's against the code of conduct. I'd lose my fellowship, my credentials, everything."

"So just wait until she graduates. That's only another year, yeah?"

"You say it like it's that easy. I shouldn't even be _considering this_!"

Mytho shrugs. "Why not? I'm sure she'd be more than happy to wait."

Fakir sits up so quickly that his head smashes into the corner of the table. He shouts and collapses again, swearing as he clutches his forehead. Yeah, that's definitely going to bruise.

"Are you alright, Fakir?" Mytho asks.

"No!" He snaps. "I'm at the risk of losing my job, this beer that you bought tastes like actual sewage, my head is _pounding_, and I think—"

Fakir abruptly cuts himself off. No. No. He is not even going to think of going down that road right now, because saying it out loud means that it is real and there is not enough booze in the world to deal with **that** revelation.

"You think what?"

Fakir shakes his head, scowling. "I think that I'm not _nearly_ intoxicated enough to finish that train of thought."

Mytho blinks, and simply holds out his drink to Fakir in silent offering.

"Get that away from me," He hisses, "And would you **_put on some pants_**?"

"But you said-"

"I know what I said. And now I'm telling you to drop it."

"Drop what?"

Fakir freezes like a deer in headlights, and the room shoots up another ten degrees when he sees Rue and Ahiru standing in the kitchen's doorway. Rue looks like she has just eaten an entire lemon in one bite, and Ahiru looks just as shocked and mortified as he feels. They must look like quite the sight: a pantsless Mytho clutching a margarita while kneeling next to a disheveled Fakir, who is sprawled across the floor like one of the several empty bottles of beer scattered around him.

"Professor Lohen?" Ahiru squeaks. "What are you doing here? And oh my _gosh what happened to your __**head**__?!_"

The prettiest blush spreads across her freckled cheeks and Fakir feels the urge to smash his head against the table again. Somehow, against all laws of physics and basic biology, Fakir is simultaneously too drunk and too sober to deal with this. So he takes the only course of action that comes to mind: he grabs his jacket, grabs the drink from Mytho's hands, and downs it in one go before fleeing the apartment entirely.


End file.
